


I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night

by milenajesenskas



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Gen, Mentions of self-harm, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, and also I butcher references to historical figures and mythology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-19
Updated: 2012-06-19
Packaged: 2017-11-08 03:58:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/438898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milenajesenskas/pseuds/milenajesenskas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He called her his Joan of Arc and it still wasn't true, because then who would he be? He was the saint that spoke to her in fields and the flame that choked her words, but he wasn't either of those things, really. If he was a story, he'd be Icarus, and she knew it. They both did. That was why she was there, after all. He could never settle on a story to fit her though, and she would shake her head and try to explain that some people didn't have stories told about them.</p>
<p>He would insist that she wasn't one of those people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night

**Author's Note:**

> I know this show hasn't aired yet, and all my headcanon will likely be shot down once it does, but... Shh.

He called her his Joan of Arc, but that wasn't really true, because she was never his to begin with.

 

He knew not only how to lie, but how to spot one fed to him, passed off in little slips and half-truths. ( _“I've never met that man before.” “I couldn't have been there that night, I was at a friend's place.” “You'll be fine, it's not as bad as it could be.”_ )

He knew how to finish a crossword in fifteen minutes and how to talk his way out of a speeding ticket, but he also knew he could never convince Joan to let him drive  _her_ car again.

He knew chemistry and maths, psychology and cryptography, and even a bit of physics and geology when he wanted to.

 

But the most important thing he knew was that he would never know the streets of New York as well as Joan Watson did.

 

Joan grew up on those streets, playing ball with the boys in her neighborhood while her parents were at work, or fixing her hair in a cab after coming home from the bar with a stranger's number in her purse. (The same boys she grew up with gave her the nickname. Only they would remember the number of continents. She wouldn't call it bragging per se,  _but_ .) 

She knew a city like New York should make you hesitate on walking alone at night, but the fact that she knew it well enough to always forget the warning made her less afraid. New York City was the gruff old man at the back of the bar, the heroin addict who used to be a promising young actress, and the businessman in the socks that only matched his earrings, and the best part was, she knew all of their names. She knew the way they smelled when they came into a room, how their footsteps sounded on a tile floor, and she could tell their voices apart from the way they cleared their throats.

 

The city never scared her, because she knew it entirely, and she was always good at keeping old friends.

 

-

 

She met him on a Monday in a room filled with screens, which he would never play one at a time. She didn't quite know how he could hear them all at once, but then again, there were a lot of things that she didn't know about him just yet.

 

The first thing he did was to tell her that he loved her. It caught her by surprise, and since she hadn't learned to roll her eyes and walk away yet, she didn't notice the scars barely covered by a tattoo. He'd done his best to hide them after realizing that it made him sick to see people's faces as they tried not to stare, and so he picked a design heavy in lines (an angel's wing, a spider's web, it didn't matter, really), but he could still feel them in the way that no one ever ran their fingers down his shoulder twice.

 

She'd find out eventually, and he knew he'd have to tell her  _why_ , but that was an argument for another day. “Joan Watson.” she said, and neither of them mentioned the wristbands.

 

-

 

He called her his Joan of Arc and this time she knew it wasn't true, because he had come in through the window at three in the morning, smelling of cheap beer and cigarettes.

 

“You're not supposed to be drinking.” She would say, time and time again.

 

He'd stand up, run his hands through his hair, and start pacing about in those tight little loops that she refused to get annoyed at. “You can't tell me what to do.”

 

“Actually, I can.” She'd remind him quickly, with the well-practiced voice of someone who had done too many years at med school to be stuck babysitting. “It's what I'm paid for.”

 

“Oh, come on.” He'd say and he'd grab her hands. “Oh, Joan. My Joan of Arc. O Captain, my Captain!” And he'd crack a smile and fall over laughing and she would never, ever understand why.

 

-

 

She found him on a Sunday, asleep on a bus stop bench in the Lower East Side. There was a message on her phone from 6:43 that morning, and even though his voice was worn out and she could tell he hadn't been sleeping, she still knew exactly how to find him. By the time she got there, the lunchtime traffic had died down, and the would-be passengers had silently agreed to not go near him. She stood over him, eyes fixed on his face, and tried to prod him awake. This, of course, was met with the usual groaning and arms flopping about in a half-hearted attempt to be left to sleep. After a particularly sharp shove to the shoulder, he sat up and rubbed a hand across his face.

 

“What day is it?”

 

“Sunday. Come on, we have to go. You can't sleep on a public transportation bench, the cops'll think you're homeless. Again.” She added, recalling a previous early morning call that was only funny in hindsight. He tried to lay back down, but she caught his wrist to pull him back up. It was true, she was stronger than she looked in every way possible, but that fact didn't make him smile like it usually did, so he just pulled his sleeves back down and readjusted his scarf.

 

They sat together on the bus, but he kept his eyes glued to the window the window, knowing that she was staring at him. “Holmes.” She said finally, in that voice that he hated because it reminded him that she was always being paid for her time. “You know I'm going to have to ask.”

 

“No you don't, actually.” He corrected, a bit too matter-of-factly. “My father pays you to make sure I stay clean. If it's nothing to do with that, then I don't see why it concerns you.”

 

She was't sure how to argue with that. She knew better than to try.

 

-

 

He called her his Joan of Arc and it still wasn't true, because then who would he be? He was the saint that spoke to her in fields and the flame that choked her words, but he wasn't either of those things, really. If he was a story, he'd be Icarus, and she knew it. They both did. That was why she was there, after all. He could never settle on a story to fit her though, and she would shake her head and try to explain that some people didn't have stories told about them.

 

He would insist that she wasn't one of those people.

 

“Everyone's a story, my Maid of Orléans. I've just got to figure out which one you are.”

 

“I guess that is what you do, isn't it?”

 

-

 

She came home on a Saturday to find him flat on his back on the floor, eyes dull and unblinking. If she didn't know any better, she'd be worried he was dead, but since she  _did_ know much better, she just walked past him to the kitchen instead. “We've got hot chocolate. The little packets with the marshmallows. Want some?” Of course, there was no response, so the best course of action was just to begin making some anyway. She came back and crouched down next to him, armed with a mug in each hand. It was always better to come bearing sweets when they had to have this talk. “Here, drink this. I gave you my marshmallows too.” He reluctantly sat up and did as he was told, but she knew she wasn't going to get him to look at her. “Have you-”  


“I know what you're going to ask.” His voice was flat, but he took another sip of his drink all the same. “You always make hot chocolate when you know I'm not going to like what you have to say.”

 

“It's your favorite.”

 

“It is.”

 

They sat in silence until he finished his drink and laid his head down on her shoulder, and she let him do it too, because they both knew he didn't have the energy to climb up and lie down on the couch. “Holmes, have you-”

 

“No.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“I can't think on them. I never have any ideas. I can't see the patterns like I should.”

 

“And can you think now?”

 

“...No. But it's different, you know that.”

 

She gave him a look that said that she didn't, but it was lost on the fact that his head was buried in her shoulder now. “I don't. Know, I mean. I don't know how it's different.”

 

“Because.” He said, and when that wasn't a good enough answer, he leaned back against the front of the couch and pressed his hands over his eyes. “Because I'd rather be brilliant sometimes and terrible the rest of the time, than just... Average all the time. I can't stand it. Once you've been up so high, it's hard to settle for mediocre again. I suppose I am Icarus after all. ...You couldn't possibly understand.”

 

“Why, because I'm not 'brilliant' like you?”

 

“No.” And he looked her in the eye for the first time in three days. “Because you're the only one out of the pair of us that is.”

 

-

 

He called her his Joan of Arc, but he knew it wasn't true, because she wasn't the one hearing angels.


End file.
